I don’t know if you’ve ever held hands with a boy.
If you have,
Maybe you’ve noticed how his hands are rougher than your own.
They show the scars of life,
So contrasted to my own,
Which don’t even crack in the winter.

I don’t know if you’ve ever had a boy tell you he loves you.
He might blush and look away.
You might blush and pretend he didn’t say it.
It doesn’t matter.
Neither of us mentioned it,
Even years later.

I don't know what hurts more.
The fact that I let go,
Or the fact that you didn't have to.